God, I did not want to open it.
I said to Grandaddy, “You really don’t know what’s going on with the notes and photos?”
He shook his head. “This is not the work of angels. It’s the work of Lucifer’s children.”
Remi set the package on the table. He stared at it as if it might be a rattlesnake, every bit as reluctant as I to discover what was inside, what the note said.
Grandaddy unsheathed his knife, cut open the package. It was a styrofoam container much like doggie bag boxes. That, he opened as well.
Holy Christ. A recognizable—and recognizably human—body part.
I recoiled. Remi looked appalled.
“Oh, man,” I muttered. “This is—this is fucking sick.”
After a glance at Grandaddy, who seemed as ignorant of answers as we two, Remi slit open the envelope, looked inside, then pulled out a note.
This one was not made up of cut out letters from multiple sources. This one was handwritten in red ink, just like the names on the back of the photo.
McCue read it quickly, color fading. Then, in a squeezed, uneven voice, he read it aloud.
“From hell.
Gabriel and Remiel
Sirs
I send you half the kidney I took from one woman, preserved it for you the other piece I fried and ate it was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer.”
Remi let the note drop from his fingers. He lost his tan entirely, swallowed convulsively. “Oh my God. It’s the text of the original letter . . . and the names are right. The first names of the women in the photos—they’re the same. Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Elizabeth Stride. Catherine Eddowes.” He drew in a breath, still pale. “The next one—I think the next one will be a woman named Mary Jane. For Mary Jane Kelly.”
“Who? How do you know that?” I picked up the note, scanned it quickly—old-fashioned cursive writing and filled with spelling errors, almost indecipherable—then saw there was more writing on the other side. Four lines only, printed with careful clarity.
Call me Legion.
Call me Iñigo Montoya.
And the final two sentences:
Call me Jack the Ripper.
Catch me when you can.
Original in the Records of Metropolitan Police Service, National Archives, MEPO 3/142
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It’s believed, of the thousands of letters received by police that were purportedly written by Jack the Ripper, the one most likely to be genuine was indeed accompanied by a human body part identified as a kidney. And while most of us tend to misquote the letter’s famous line as Catch me if you can, the actual text says when.
Urban fantasy began for me, as it did for so many of us, with Charles de Lint. I read most of his work before the subgenre had a name. Read more urban fantasy by other authors over the years since de Lint’s work first appeared.
After three decades of writing novels set in imaginary worlds of my own devising—the Cheysuli, Sword-Dancer, and Karavans series—I got an itch to try my hand at fantastic elements set in our world, relying on reality as a backdrop to the unreality I would serve readers. I wanted to play with the paranormal, the supernatural, as well as legends and lore, myth and magic, history both oral and written. And to use modern slang and pop culture references was great fun.
I did ask my editor if I could use the occasional F-bomb. It’s not a regular part of my personal lexicon, but I felt it would definitely be part of Gabe’s. She was fine with it. Said she was born in New York City and f*** was her middle name. Unfortunately I could not quote song lyrics word-for-word because of copyright and licensing issues. It’s a shame, because country music lyrics are the most colorful on Planet Earth.
My minor is in British History, but cultural anthropology also fascinated me in school. I loved learning about different civilizations, religions, rituals. I very nearly switched my major from journalism to anthro, but to do so would have required me to take a statistics class, and that meant the arcane and incomprehensible rituals and recipes of mathematics would be involved. Thus, my BS in journalism.
The initial impulse was to make my two protagonists a male and female pairing. But I realized it would probably end up sounding very like Tiger and Del of my Sword-Dancer series, and while I love writing about those two characters, I didn’t want to do a knock-off of my own work.
I had Gabe already in mind, reflecting my interest in folklore and mythology. As for Remi, well, I grew up in Arizona and, for many years, owned horses and attended rodeos frequently. This even led to three rodeo queen titles in the ’70s: Scottsdale Parada del Sol, Phoenix Rodeo of Rodeos, and Miss Rodeo Arizona.
I spent pretty much every Friday night dancing to country music at cowboy bars, and Wednesday nights after Rodeo Club when attending Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. The latter venue included the Museum Club on Route 66, which is the model for the Zoo Club. So when Remi talks about powdered tobacco tucked inside his lip—well, yes, I tried it a few times. And I did shots of tequila, and have eased my way through good single malt uisge beatha. (Alba gu brath!)
As for guns, I’ve taken classes, hit the shooting range (revolver preferred to semi-auto), researched, repeatedly picked the brains of gun experts James Kosky and Simon Hawke. As for motorcycles, I’ve ridden but never driven, and certainly never laid one down. There, Simon Hawke’s experience with All Things Motorcycle was invaluable to me. But all errors, always, are mine and mine alone.
Upcoming projects, in addition to the further adventures of Gabe and Remi, include a new Sword-Dancer novel and the final installment of the Karavans series. I can be reached through my website, www.jennifer-roberson.net.
—Jennifer Roberson
Tucson, Arizona
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer Roberson is the author of the Chronicles of the Cheysuli, the Sword-Dancer Saga, the Karavans series, and the new urban fantasy series Blood & Bone. She has also published three historical novels and several in other genre, and a short story collection titled Guinevere's Truth & Other Tales. She creates mosaic art and jewelry, and lives in Arizona with an assortment of Cardigan Welsh Corgis and cats.
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Life and Limb Page 28